


Four Horsemen

by anniesburg



Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/M, General vampire rules apply, Implied Murder, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unsafe Sex, one shot series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: A one-shot series for each of the main four Lost Boys.





	1. A Lesser Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> whether or not i restrain myself to four chapters for each of The Boys is unclear at this time. but at the very least it'll be that. anyway paul's is first because i'm biased.

Mostly you stay on the cliffs, wandering over craggy rocks and watching the moonlight rippled by the sea. Not a lot lives in the summer, the sun-baked sand housing rootless brush and dry vegetation. A single spark could light this place on fire, they’d clap from the boardwalk. 

Sometimes your skirt catches in the curves of the briars and you have to rip it free. For a moment there’s a sense of panic in your still heart as you turn to look back. But it’s never hands rising from the ground like you fear, only twigs in your way. 

You like the cliffs and the view and the red dawn before it turns your skin to ash. But then it comes proper, yellow and orange. The sea turns yellow too, like a mirror with a texture and you have to run away. You know the rules, keep the cave in sight when you’re wandering close to sunrise. 

Ducking inside in time’s never a problem, you’ve never been singed. Paul has, he’s been late before. His laugh and his scream sound the same, you’ve come to know. 

But in a twist of fate, he’s the one giving you a look like disgust from the sofa. He’s tired, you can tell, stretched thin by a night of wild work and waning drugs. Even so, he can’t sit still. You don’t like his expression so you move to change it. 

He lounges on a dilapidated sofa, reading a glam metal magazine dated ‘74. The cave’s full of collected reading material most of it in pieces on the floor, ripped by steel-toed boots. But Paul likes to keep a couple things in good order, David has books. 

You sit next to him, hearing the creak of the old wood and pretending not to hear the scuttling cockroaches. Being a vampire’s filthy business, none of you would’ve guessed. 

“Hey,” you offer up after a long look and a longer pause. When he doesn’t breathe a word in response, you kick up your feet and place them strategically across his lap. To your surprise, he doesn’t push you away. “come on, don’t be such a hypocrite.” 

“When I do it, it’s funny,” he doesn’t quite snap. He’s a sensible boy, well aware that he can’t criticize you without laying the blame on himself. 

“I always make it back in time. Besides, I’ve never caught fire,” you remind him with a little smirk, the heels of your feet pressing into the broken sofa arm. He glowers, making a face to substitute for the fact that he hasn’t got an argument. 

His knee’s jumping, he’ll be in flux all day today. Not because of your little stunt, honestly he should be used to that by now. But Paul’s brand of high-octane blood doesn’t lend itself to chilling out. 

“Okay,” you grumble. “what if I said sorry?” his eyes are cast downward, determined not to look at you now. The silent treatment, what a laugh. He couldn’t shut up if he tried. 

“Wouldn’t matter unless you didn’t do it again, you know?” he does snap this time, but he doesn’t look up. Paul’s pissed that he can’t go a minute without returning your acknowledgement. He likes the attention too much. 

“You want me to lie, pretty boy?” there’s more of a joke in your tone, an unspoken desire for the argument to end. You two have forever, longer than forever. You want to remind him of that. Fights can happen when you’re old, bored, when the party’s over. 

“Whatever it takes,” he responds well to flippancy when it’s for his benefit, and he looks up finally. His eyes are like stone in a fireplace, wild around the edges. Dead in the centre. You lift your chin. 

“I promise that I won’t leave the cave again, ever. I’ll never go out and I’ll never let the sun make me ash.” he rolls those weird eyes of his. 

“That just sounds boring,” he complains. You know how he hates boring, how he engages in dangerous habits to avoid him. His high’s wearing off, along with his good mood but you can still see its remnants. He doesn’t want to fight, either. It’s for weak, ancient people with grandchildren and mortgages. 

“I’m sorry,” you say without defining exactly what for. Could be for the stunt, could be for boring him. He can make up which one. His eyes glitter and you know he has. He puts his hand on your knee, the cover of his magazine falling and obscuring the glossy picture. 

You sit up against the arm your back’s pressed to, moving closer to him now that he doesn’t want to kill you for nearly getting killed. Paul’s unwilling to give in just yet, there’s a slight remnant of that cold shoulder you hate so bad. Your elbow knocks against his bicep, you make yourself comfortable against his side. 

He’s being ridiculous, turning his head away from you like he’s still mad. Like he’s not playing games. You can’t help but think it’s a tragic waste of energy and love. Or a coded message asking you to kiss his neck, one of the two. 

And you can’t deny that he’s given access, the collar of his morning coat’s moved enough. You struggle to bite back a smile, to keep from biting down on him. You kiss where his pulse should be but isn’t, feeling for a heartbeat that’s been silent for two decades. 

You’re very rarely given specifics here. David’s probably going on eighty, either that or he likes pretending his relationship with history’s personal. Dwayne could be fifty, maybe sixty. He doesn’t say much about anything, let alone what he wouldn’t remember anyway. Marko’s not as young as he looks, just how he likes it. But he only ever grins when you try to ask. 

And the one called Paul, the one who’s a big fan of love when he’s all alone is eighteen going on thirty-eight. You have a full-year pass back into his good graces and very little to worry about. Paul tilts his head back towards you again, his hand on the back of your neck to keep you from taking away what he’s enjoying. 

You don’t ask for forgiveness, only for him to lighten up a little. He does it without any further complaint or unearned anger. In fact, he’s eerily silent as you colour his neck a dark purple with your lipstick. Faded teethmarks and mouth-prints smear into one, beautiful painting on his skin. You pull away solely because he doesn’t want that. 

Sitting back on your knees, you lift your hand and press your thumb against the mess of makeup and slight bruising. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, your fingers curl around the front of his neck but you don’t apply any more pressure. 

“You look like shit,” you lie. He’s handsome, he’s aware of it. But he does look drained, run-down, ramshackle. More like a human than you’ve ever seen with bloodshot eyes.

“Do not,” he cuts you off. You aren’t listening. He turns toward you and your hand falls away from him. 

“Everybody else already got to bed?” you ask. He nods. 

“Just you’n me. You wanna put out the fire you started?” he asks like he’s so irresistible, like you’re crazy about him. It might be true. The way he lifts his eyebrows to tell you what he means is nothing short of precious.

“If I did, you’d need crutches.” Paul whistles at you, the noise short and low like he’s interested. 

“That supposed to turn me off?” oh, you never meant for that. He’s aware, but it’ll never stop him from being a tease. His sits with his legs open, moving them further apart so your knee touches his outer thigh. 

“No, it’s a warning. Not my problem if you don’t listen.” he won’t listen, but the fact that he hasn’t pounced already tells you a lot. He’s hardly on his best behaviour, he’s exhausted. You brush your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back how he likes it. 

“C’mere,” he starts, reaching for you. One arm loops around your waist, the other tossing his magazine to the side. He’ll find it in another ten years. You seek to surprise him with your new strength, falling back on the sofa with a laugh and taking him with you. It’s different to how it was before, he can be rough and you can be rough back. 

“You’re such an animal. You come here,” you tell him, he lands hard on your chest but there isn’t any breath to knock from your lungs. Paul looks at you, his expression clear as day. He loves you nine dreams deep. 

“The ladies like it wild,” he tells you like it’s fact. He sees on the horizon your retort and he takes it from you, kissing you to quiet things down. Your neck presses painfully into a raw piece of wood previously upholstered but you barely feel it. 

Your knees part to accommodate his lower body, awkwardly existing like a mirror image above yours. He fits between your spread legs and Paul’s teeth scrape your lower lip. He’s already rocking his hips forward, making you gasp into his mouth. 

Of course he thinks he’s got you now, pushed you past your coy restraint right into seven shades of easy. You’re tempted to pull him back by the hair again, to tell him that’s a strong contender for really boring around here. It almost happens, you break the kiss. And you look at him, breathing hard out of habit even if it does nothing. 

“Take it easy, Paulie,” he doesn’t like it when you call him that, he shows his teeth. But the teasing, lilting tone to your voice isn’t present. You look worried, touching his face with a reverence that’s saved for when he’s high and wants it gentle. 

There’s no stopping him, but he does slow. He braces a hand on either side of your head, your arms wrapping around his back. 

“We got all day, don’t we?” you ask, he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the dip where your collabone meets your throat. He hears you and scoffs, but it sounds like you made him laugh. 

“And all night,” he says, he’s pulling at your tank top. His lips are cold, but now your sternum is too. He doesn’t make you shiver like you used to. Your arms around his middle tighten, hugging him with all that real love. 

“Bullshit, you’d never stay in with me,” you’re laughing too, wounding his pride right before giving him an ego stroke. It’s tough to tell if he appreciates it. 

“If you asked nice enough,” he starts but the way he ends his sentence tells you a questions coming. He tugs on the thin strap of your tank top. “I just wanna—” your hand covers his, head tilted back so you can look at him. You pull, ripping the strap from the rest of the fabric. “that’s more like it.”

He attacks your exposed shoulder, tearing the strap on the other side while he’s preoccupied. Your hands settle at the back of his neck, his teeth catch on your skin. Hisses and sighs leave you, quiet at first but growing ever-louder. 

Paul’s never one to maintain innocence, especially not in the name of exploration. He pushes your top down, not caring enough to remove it so long as he can get at what he wants. 

He gives you a wink before dipping his head, closing his mouth on your right breast. 

“If you bite me, I swear—” you’re cut off by a gasp that he thoroughly enjoys, his empty hand rising to grab at your chest. You tug at his hair, a little more shameless now than you’d usually want to be. Dwayne’s rolling his eyes in the coffin right now, Marko’ll never let you live it down. 

But Paul doesn’t bite, just as you asked. He’s rough but he doesn’t seek to make it hurt. He kisses your breastbone, your ribs and back up again. His hips rock forward slowly against yours. 

“You want more?” you ask and the surprise that crosses his face is priceless. He likes control, you’ve let him have it but you’re still the one setting the pace. You expect some kind of witty retort, a hand on your inner thigh pushing up your skirt. Nothing happens, Paul pushes himself up onto his knees. He swallows hard, then nods. “take your pants off, then.” you don’t have to tell him twice. 

He nearly rips his belt buckle off, tugging at it and flinging it across the room. It hits the stone fountain with a metallic clang but he hardly seems to hear it. Paul’s looking at you, his hand pressed to the tent in his jeans. You cut him a break and let your eyes fall to the persistent reminder previously digging into your pelvis. A lift of an eyebrow’s all it takes, you look impressed and he looks like he’s going to come. 

Paul unzips himself as you tug up the hem of your skirt, pulling it to your hips. You lift them and your panties join his belt at a velocity denoting your similar excitement. He grins at you, a real one without the usual mockery. You smile back. 

“Come on, big guy,” you say, knowing well enough that he’ll take the invitation to talk as serious as anything. 

“Now who needs to take it easy?” he asks. The hand not fishing his cock from his jeans moves between your legs, his thumb circling your clit. You hiss, but your smile remains. 

“Careful with those claws,” you say, your voice dances on the edge of breathless. You painted his nails yesterday, an alternative to a smoke after a similar coupling. This is a little more relaxed. 

“You’ve never complained before,” but he listens, he always does. remarkably careful as always, his middle and index finger sink inside you. Part of you knows he’s looking for further ego stroking, so you give it to him. You moan, you work your hips against his fingers, you gasp his name. 

He knows when you’re ready, when you’re about to snap if he doesn’t give you want he’s promised. You don’t want just his hand inside you. Your legs wrap around his waist, he eases in with a noise you’re certain no one else has heard. 

For a minute, just a minute you don’t feel cold. You feel hot as the centre of the sun, pushing his coat off his shoulders and seizing his mesh shirt. He comes crashing down on top of you, hips working like a jackhammer as you claw up his back. There’s a sound like tearing fabric, neither of you care. 

He’s talkative, but you bet on that. The noise is nice, the words between moans and sighs nearly indistinguishable from each other. You can’t make out most of it, but you reply when you can. Echoing his name seems to satisfy him. 

You move like flames, like blades as you scratch up his back. You’ll take care of him after, even if little things like that don’t leave scars. He tries to put his weight on his hands again, to find some leverage but it can’t be done. He lies on you and the absent heartbeat’s never mattered less. 

The both of you breath heavy, remnants of some long-forgotten need. Your head swims, his cologne in your brain and his skin on yours. It feels like an hour of writhing and screaming, of bitten jugulars and slurred speech. The sun falls in lazy lines all around you but it never touches anything delicate. 

He’s worn out, you know it. His pride keeps him moving, keeps him looking at your face to see when he’s done right by you. Your eyes close, the heat in your belly’s all encompassing. Your shoulders lift, you kiss him. You finish first and it’s— well, it’s a first. 

Paul looks like he’s about to burst, your hand returns to his throat. Your thumb and index finger barely span it, but it’s less about the act of forcing useless oxygen from him. The noise he makes is guttural, his hips sputter. He comes and he collapses on top of you, his lungs sound like hell. 

You lie quiet for a little while, unable to see his back and the damage you’ve done. You hope it isn’t bad, both of you get carried away. You kiss the top of his head, forcefully repressing the desire to tease him about his ruined hair. 

“Did you like that?” you ask. His laugh’s guttural. 

“Yeah,” he says. “you?” 

“Not bad,” you drag your fingers through his hair.


	2. Torch Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, i think i understand now why everyone likes dwayne so much.

An unwelcome hand on your ass comes and goes so quick, rookie mistake to think there won’t be any reprecussions. There’s a flash of orange eyes, a face-full of claw and some surfer’s staggering back to his friends like a baby. It’s just a little scratch. A good doctor’ll save that eye, no problem.

“Come on, Dee,” you grumble. Dwayne permits your anger without surprise or discomfort. Your shoulder hits his as you brush by in a huff. The act makes you pause. You touch the leopard on his jacket so carefully that it makes onlookers wonder if your violence must be some mistake. You carry a softer expression when you look at him.

His eyes are coal, cold to the sight. They could make you shiver but the slight curve of his mouth tells you he’s ready to follow wherever you go. The split came naturally, guys and their girls wandering in different directions. Covering more ground’s the best way to get found out, but tonight feels special.

Electricity sings in the air, you reach of Dwayne’s hand and tug him along. You’ve forgotten about anything else, anyone else daring to touch what isn’t theirs. It’s a blip, a blinded eye as you stalk away.

You’re quiet, mostly. You return to tonight’s purpose of pawing through music shops looking for Dinah Shore on cassette tape.

“Why’s it matter?” he asks, you lift you’re head and he expects that look of shock to be for him. 

“’Cause she’s under-appreciated!” you exclaim. “Benny Goodman was kickin’ himself for lookin’ her over. I ain’t gonna.”

“I don’t remember her,” he defends. You scoff, parting plastic cases with your fingers. The neat, slanted handwriting does spell out her name in this pile. You move on and he stays close. 

“Maybe you slept through the ‘40s but I sure as hell didn’t.” Dwayne shrugs, leaning against the wall baring a faded Bob Dylan poster. 

“Didn’t sleep,” he says. “just didn’t pay much attention.” 

“Figures. Your mistake, buddy.” it’s easy enough to joke about stuff like this, you give him a little smile. He doesn’t return it, but he’d tell you to cut it out if he wanted you to.

You’ve known him long enough, the teasing comes easy.

“Just wait’ll I find a greatest hits album. You know how to foxtrot?” you keep your eyes on him for a moment but he stares at you like you have two heads. Your eyes drop back to the records. 

“No,” he says like it’s obvious. 

“I’ll teach you,” you say. He grunts, a dismissive sound. He doesn’t care either way.

You go back to scouring the place, the system’s a joke. You keep finding Elvis in the S-section. But this is the last place, it’s here or it’s not. Your enthusiasm dims the longer you search, checking and re-checking boxes for anything approaching what you want. You feel a nudge, a cold hand on your shoulder and you turn.

Dwayne’s holding up a tape. Dinah Shore smiles on the faded cover and you snatch it from his hand with a wide smile. You turn it over, inspecting the song list before nodding in approval.

“You’re like a bloodhound,” you start, leaning in to kiss his cheek in thanks. “don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

He shrugs again, the act brushing off your gesture of appreciation. But you don’t mind, you take his hand and pull him towards the cash. Three dollars worth of quarters clatter on the counter and you wait while the bored-looking hippie at the register counts them.

There’s another tap on your shoulder, Dwayne nods toward the busy crowd. It’s not the one-eyed surfer, but his buddies look at both of you with mean glares before disappearing into the wave of tourists. You grimace but elect not to say anything. You stuff the tape in your pocket and leave the store.

“Wish we had a car,” you say. Your arm loops around Dwayne’s, you’d rather not lose him.

“Somethin’ wrong with my bike?” he asks, you shake your head. 

“Nah, but there’s no stereo. And I left my walkman at the cave. I don’t wanna go all the way back.” you explain, Dwayne gets a dangerous look in his eye. 

“Bet those surfer guys got a car,” he says. Your grin is instantaneous. 

“And I’m kinda thirsty,” you finish. “think our boys’ll hate us if we start the party a little early?” Dwayne shakes his head, it’s all the affirmation you need.

\---

You’ll never get used to flying, no matter what anyone says. The honest rush, the lift-off. It isn’t hard, the hardest part is staying in the earth’s atmosphere. You know you could soar, take in the stars and measure exactly how much distance exists between them. You know you could do it, you’ll never die. You don’t need the air and you’re so cold already.

But you have more important things to do, thirst burns your throat. You hold Dwayne’s hand to keep you steady, to keep you from choosing the moon. He doesn’t mind, he understands.

There’s no talking forty feet into the air. The wind’s too strong, he wouldn’t hear you anyway. It’s hardly silent, but it’s quiet and you find yourself smiling at him. This is going to be fun, you think.

You see the surfers before you hear them, bad music blasting from the radio of their Cadillac. Everything about it is obnoxious, you want to put out more eyes.

This is less of a habit, you realize as the screaming drowns out the music. They see you coming but there’s no way to outrun death. This is a pattern, could become a rut but you look to Dwayne. He has blood on his face, a blonde girl in a tight grip as he drinks from her neck. He casts her aside and she crumples like a rag doll, he wipes his face on his jacket sleeve. This isn’t a rut right now. This is living.

Getting rid of the bodies is easy enough, Dwayne starts the fire. Come dawn there’ll be a fresh wallpapering of missing person posters covering Santa Carla.

But for now, there’s a little night left as the smell of burned flesh chokes the air. You make yourself comfortable in the front of the car. The Caddy’s seats are sticky with blood, your jeans’ll be ruined by morning. When you’re bored, you honk the horn rather decisively. In the light of the high beams you watch his face shift. His fangs retract and his face is different. No more beautiful in you’re opinion, just different.

“You wanna roll out?” you ask. “This place is makin’ me sick.” Dwayne nods, taking his place in the passenger’s seat. The door’s barely closed before you’re stamping on the pedal, sending the car shooting forward. 

It’s a bumpy ride to the beach, one spent exchanging looks and laughs with the boy beside you. He likes to go fast, always has. The dazzle from the boardwalk looks cheaper from this distance, the sand beneath the tires eventually preventing you from moving forward any further. You keep it running, opening your purse and popping the Shore tape into the stereo.

You fiddle with the dials, pressing buttons by moon-and-electric light until finally she’s singing. You lean back in your seat.

“Ever fucked in a convertible, Dee?” you ask, glancing at him. He has his feet up on the dashboard, watching the water that neither of you can touch. He grunts like the idea’s interesting. “With the top down?” 

“Not yet,” he says. He looks at you, his eyes are dark and reflecting the twinkling lights of the carousel.

“You wanna change that?” he considers the idea, turns it over slowly just to get a rise out of you. It works. You give his shoulder a playful shove. “if you don’t—”

He cuts you off with a look, he doesn’t return the shove. “Yeah, okay. I want to.”

The talk ends, you lean forward and kiss him just the once. Your smile’s bright like day without the burning sensation. You didn’t bother putting on your seatbelt, there’s nothing stopping you from standing on the drivers seat and confidently tumbling into the back of the car. Dwayne pulls the shift stick, putting the car in park. Dinah’s still singing.

“You comin’?” you ask, lifting your head. He watches you, you’re already attacking your belt and tugging the scarf away from your neck. Dwayne looks hungry again, like how he did with the blonde girl. 

You sit back, waiting for him to pounce. He doesn’t, he moves towards you slowly. The backseat accepts him a lot more gracefully than it did you. He pushes your hands out of the way, gripping your belt with enough force to lift your hips as he fumbles with it. You touch his bare chest, his stomach’s hard and strong. So are his shoulders, you push his leather jacket off them. It falls away.

It’s late, there’s nobody around but still you find yourself looking. It’d be funny, you think. Funny as fuck if someone came by and saw you two penetrating souls. It’d be something, something for Max’s video store, maybe. You making him and him making you, it’d sell. You smile at him, he doesn’t know what for.

“I wanna be on top,” you say before he can pin you to the blood and the leather. He rolls his shoulders, nodding and helping you with his hands on your waist. He lifts you like you’re nothing and you settle astride his hips, Dwayne half-lies diagonal on the seat. 

Your belt’s gone, jeans undone and they’re easy enough to shimmy out of. When you’re mostly in your skin, he moves his hands to your thighs. He explores charted land with his fingertips, careful not to cut or dig. You roll your hips most unexpectedly, the look of surprise on his face can’t be bought anywhere.

Unbuttoning your vest becomes a contact sport, with Dwayne bumping your fingers out of the way to help. You resign to let him, dipping your head to distract him with strategic kisses along his jaw. You push your hips against his, sneaking a hand down to the front of his pants. Exploration goes both ways.

The rush and the fuss gives way to a very languid kiss, his mouth on yours as the world sizzles and fades to nothing. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment, to want to put two and two together before anyone catches sight and calls the cops. But there’s hours left, it’s worth finding out if you can make the sun stand still.

You sit back, breaking the kiss and keeping him from taking off your t-shirt. That can stay.

“So grabby tonight,” you mumble. His hands settle on the tops of your thighs. “and over-dressed.” but just barely. You set about returning the favour for the quick work he made of your belt. You unbutton his pants, stopping to feel and watch him. His face is shameless, tilted towards you. His expression is the softest you’ve seen it, appreciating the view and the way your skin feels under his fingertips.

Those dark eyes close, a groan’s stirred from him when your hands make skin-on-skin contact with what’s between his legs. You take his cock in your hand, it’s nothing new but it doesn’t always have to be. How he likes it’s easy enough to remember. Long, slow strokes with a loose fist gets him breathing erratically every time.

You put a hand on his shoulder, keeping yourself steady. He’s content, for now, to drink in the sensation of being cared for, of having it exactly how he likes it. You miss his eyes, but he gives you another gift when he speaks your name. 

As much as you want to hear that again, asking’s out of the question. It’s naturally-occurring or nothing. If Dwayne wants you to hear him, you will.

He’s rock-hard when you’re done with him, focusing your attention instead on the expanse of his torso. His abs are nice to touch, your fingers spread out as wide as they can isn’t enough to cover them. You slide your hands up, up to his shoulders and use the leverage to sit forward. You push yourself up onto your knees, tugging your panties out of the way before lowering yourself.

It’s a slow process. You take him an inch at a time, revelling in the slight ache and the way he hisses in your ear. It feels good, warm, a little sharp. He bites you without meaning to, right where your jaw meets your neck. You begin.

There is no naturally-occurring hierarchy, you move and he moves like a wave that’d kill you both if it hit you. Fuck the running water rule. Your hands leave his shoulders, they fall to where his grip you. You entwine your fingers, palms against his palms. The curve of his neck is comfortable, you stake a claim. The rolling of your hips goes undisrupted until he breaks away from your grip. He fits his palm against your vulva, curling his fingers inward and touching your clit with an experimental fascination.

The result is fireworks, exactly what he wanted. You shiver, your mouth pressed to his neck. Nothing’s said, nothing needs to be. I love you’s are too long, the distance between you two is non-existent, continually tested. Dwayne pushes his body against yours often enough to ensure that his skin and your skin cannot be any closer. He’s coiled like a spring, gentle underneath you as you rise and fall. Taking in lungfuls of air isn’t enough. You nip his neck, his shoulders. You moan in his ear.

You’d be fine with the sun rising now. Burning with him fitting into you seems like a fine way to go. It could happen, your eyes are obstructed by his hair and his throat. You can’t decide if feeding’s a mockery of this or if sex and death are just intimate friends. If you have a soul, it’s part of him now.

The possibility of every terrible thing happening at once while your eyes are closed and you make each other happy is shattered. You lift your head because he has to know. Letting him know is a habit at this point. Your voice sounds strange, strained and lustful. You’re going to come, he better not stop.

He doesn’t respond in the traditional sense. Dwayne instead tugs his hand holding yours away and wraps it decisively around your waist. It almost hurts, the way he pushing his body against yours, denying any chance of existing outside of you. He can’t get deep enough, but he isn’t trying to bruise.

Nothing exhausts you better. You give a high shout and a laugh. You make it your personal business to tell everyone his name. Dwayne’s a good fuck, they should know. Your head’s on his shoulder again and you have no concrete memory of deciding to put it there. But it’s nice, it’s comfortable.

You’re not aware that he’s stopped until his hand’s out of your underwear and he’s pawing at your shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you say without really wondering why. “that was intense.” above you now, he laughs. 

“We gotta get rid of the car.” he tells you. You nod. 

Putting on clothes after your body’s been turned inside out is the weirdest feeling. It’s too normal. He stuffs his cock back into his jeans and there’s a clicking sound as he buckles his belt. How do you tell him he made you feel clean while you’re trying to find your scarf?

So you say nothing. You trust that he knows. He’s loosened up a little, grinning and looking you up and down. He looks hot, hotter than usual. When the layers are more in order and you’re able to sit upright, you open the back door of the Caddy and move to the back.

Disposing of the evidence is the hardest part. You’re really going to miss this thing. Great sex is less about the location, you can admit, but it’s a pretty nice car.

But there’s nowhere to keep it. Dwayne hops out too and stars shoving it by the bumper towards the water. You help. That is, until he stops.

Pushing the car on your own’s an option but Dwayne’s departure’s unusual. He moves away, circling towards the engine and you watch him.

“Where the hell are you goin’?” you ask. He waves a hand, jumps over the door into the front seat. He finds the eject button on the stereo, taking your tape out and shoving it in his pocket. 

“You forgot about Dinah,” he says, walking over the leather seats and planting his boots on the Cadillac trunk. He kicks up sand when he lands, putting both hands next to yours and pushing the car out into the ocean. You’re both careful not to touch the water, watching it as the tide carries it back out. It’ll sink eventually. 

Dwayne’s holding the tape out to you for the second time tonight, you brush your hair behind your ears and take it from him.

“Thanks,” you say. “dunno how I forgot, I must’ve been thinking about somethin’ else.” his grin’s like magic. You smile too. 

“Sun’s gonna come up,” he says. You nod. 

“We should get inside.” his arm loops around yours, fitting like a hook in an eye.


	3. Eating Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not suuuuuper proud of this one, won't lie but!! for all you marko-lovers, here it is.

Marko kills god on Saturday night. The lights are too big, too blinding and the security guards prowl the pier. Sometimes all that’s wanted is an evening in, or semi-in. With blood in tumblers and anything, Christ, anything but MTV. 

Max has a back room with a tiny television. The only thing it’s missing is the rabbit ears, but it’s in colour and set on top is the holy grail. What the world did without VCR players you’ll never know, what they’ve done to earn them? You’ll never be sure. You pay your respects to the pre-recorded videotape, it means double-features become triple-features, quintuple-features. 

“We got our very own grindhouse or what?” Marko asks with an air of pride as he unlocks the doorway to paradise. You follow him in with an appreciative smile. It’s easy to be bossed, tough to be loved around here. You’re happy he lets you follow him inside. 

The room’s small, you’d call it cozy with no windows in sight. If it weren’t for your guys crawling the boardwalk you could stay here forever, let your eyes go square. 

“What are we gonna watch?” you ask, dropping your shoulder bag onto the overstuffed sofa. It takes up most of the wall, stacked behind it are old video tapes, the ones Max can’t sell. His desks’s pushed to the side, overflowing with paperwork but he never comes in here at night. Marko shuts the door, clicks the lock and you know you two’ll be alone until the fun’s run its course. 

“Was thinkin’ Basket Case,” he starts, but looks open to suggestions. You make a face. 

“Nah, that one’s fucked up.” he shrugs, sitting down on the sofa with one knee hooked on the arm. 

“I love that creepy shit, I can’t deny,” Marko pats the cushion next to him and you sit down. He does the usual, turning in his seat and dropping his head into your lap. “any bright ideas, then?” 

“Eraserhead?” you tease, Marko makes a face and pushes himself from your lap enough to look at you right-side up. 

“And you say I’m fucked,” but he gets the joke. He makes a noise like he’s sick of you but lowers his head back on top of your thighs anyway. You lift a hand, brushing it through his curls when another thought occurs to you. 

“Could just watch Rocky Horror again,” you mumble. He smirks. 

“Could do that, yeah,” but you don’t move right away, you sit with your back against the green corduroy sofa brushing his hair out of his eyes. There’s a pause like time’s stopped, it doesn’t last forever but it could. The door’s locked, the sound of people buying videos, twenty televisions playing Heaven is a Place on Earth go static-y quiet. 

You like being alone with him. Crazy nights are fine, really, but sometimes they read like neon billboards. Good times all the time get tiring, the cracks in the brick start showing and you miss being swallowed by the sea. 

So you drink him instead, you dip your head and kiss Marko to blot out the ennui. You have to be going crazy to feel in the first place, you know. But the way he pushes back, braces a hand against your skull and kisses the hell out of you makes you wonder if he knows. You hope he does, you don’t know how to tell him he’s all you have left of happy. 

With your lipstick adequately smeared and his mouth a dull shade of pink, you find yourself wishing you could just skip the movie. Marko, however, doesn’t share the sentiment. He jumps to action, tearing through stacks of films to find the one you’ve decided on. 

You open your backpack and that seems to interest him more. He pauses, an awful slasher movie in his hand as he tries to see what you’ve brought. With a smirk, you close the bag.   
“Get the movie going first,” you start but wonder if it’s too late to make known the fact that dead quiet with him sounds like a better time. He’d probably laugh. 

He jams the tape into the player, hitting rewind on an impulse. As much as you joke about Max sitting up all night making sure his collection’s wound to the right place, you know it isn’t so.   
“Lights,” he says and you nod. He’s bossy, for certain, grappling for control he’s deprived of outside of this room. You do what he tells you to, plunging the room into darkness to make him feel for a second like he’s David. 

And he does love David, you know this. 

But love can’t save everything, sometimes he wants to be boss. Sometimes he wants to feel the ecstatic devotion. You give him that with all your smiles. 

The blue light from the TV illuminates the windowless box. You exist inside a second television set, watched by giants you’ll never know. You open your arms, Marko flocks to them.   
He fits into you with his flair for the dramatic. His love’s clear, concise, uplifting. He’s a reminder that something other than blood can come from this place, and that you want it to.   
His head’s on your shoulder, asking you without speaking to touch his hair again. You happily comply. Focusing on the act of affection comes with a bit of a price, you don’t realize the film’s moved forward until Janet and Brad are at the wedding. 

You pepper kisses across his forehead without any real interest in what’s going on, making it know that he’s worth your time comes first. You kiss his cheeks, his closed eyelids, everywhere you can reach. He’s half in your lap. 

Marko’s never one to deny. He has a taker’s hands if you’re pressed to give an answer, he’s hardly a giving creature. But he has a gentleness about him, a way he makes you feel with a youthful glance that every kiss he gets to keep will be put to better use than if you kept it. 

This must be record time, although you remembered vaguely getting frisky before Tina woke up from her first nightmare. A whole five minutes into Nightmare on Elm Street and he had his tongue down your throat. This has to be sooner. 

But you’re not keeping score, you’re suffocating ennui. You’re pushing your sadness below the blood pooling at knee-height. Hug a maker of your pain and forget. 

You love him so much, it’s why you let him forget things too. The symbiotic destruction’s going to crash like a zeppelin one day. Most of you will survive, some unimportant bits might burn.   
The point of idle acceptance has been left behind, you understand. When he grabs your hips, sinks his fingers into your skin and doesn’t know what to do with you. He gets caught up in deciding how he’ll have the rest of you sometimes, forgetting as you let him do. He owns nothing, not even you, not really. But there’s no harm in playing pretend, not right this moment. 

He’s a visitor to your body, a tourist who’s toured it again and again. But he’s never one to get bored. You’ll have fingerprint-bruises on the backs of your thighs with the way he’s playing his cards. Marko likes to leave you better than he found you. 

You’re dragged forward now, across his lap instead. The angle at which he kisses you could crack an ordinary spine. He crushes your mouth with his, and there’s teeth. One day, Santa Carla will be swallowed by that sea, drowned by it and all you’ll miss of the whole thing will be this kiss. 

Easy does it, you want to say but you don’t. Because his intensity makes everything painful a big blur. Like when you close your eyes and the pier lights become beautiful instead of obnoxious. 

He provides structure, tracing order into the bland madness of the nightlife. You’re pulled again, up this time so you knees are against his soft thigh. 

“Make up your mind,” you huff, your voice sounds like a softer wind than he’s used to. He doesn’t like being told what to do when the door’s locked, his hands shake holding your arms. 

“I don’t want to,” he says and it’s definitive. You smile, a little warm around the edges and he accepts it. You’re back in his arms again, your cheek to a piece of tapestry painstakingly sewn into his jacket. You sigh, he does too. 

“Do you know what you want?” you ask instead, hoping that’ll provide you with more direction. He’s hard to figure out sometimes, and the kissing’s dragging on. You want more of him, you want to give him what he needs until his skin’s hot enough to melt granite. 

“You gonna let me consider my options?” he might be stalling for time but from this vantage point, you don’t mind. The Time Warp’s going to happen soon. He’s still against you, he doesn’t breathe. You feel safe, your chest to his chest as he decides what he feels like. 

He doesn’t want to see you broken, just carrying with you his marks. His arms are securely wrapped around your middle, playing with the ends of your hair.   
But Marko’s taking too long, he’s never quite sure what to make of what he wants when he can touch it. He can already taste it, you lift his head and interrupt his soul-searching. You kiss his cheekbone, making him melt before moving off his lap. 

Having emotional connections to physical objects is a hallmark of living forever. People die, it’s what they’re for but their creations can outlast. Your knees on the carpet feels familiar, right. You’re surrounded by creature comforts, plastic and tape and electric wiring. It makes you feel alive more than the singing of a pulse.   
Marko’s knees part greedily, instinctively and you fit between them quite nicely. The side of your face meets his ripped chaps, you turn your head and pay your respects. Kissing his thighs is more entertaining, you like the way he squirms. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, they writhe out of place and falling where they may. But it’s not long before they rise again, finding your cheek and then the back of your head. They grip your shoulders, his thighs, the sofa. All because of a kiss, how nice.   
Tim Curry's accented speech plays to the back of your head. Your mouth is cold and seeking out blue denim under leather, finding territory that's been lost. Nothing like reclamation, it's good for the soul. 

The big, studded belt keeping layers between him and you seems suddenly offensive. You try to undo it without deviation. But clearly you like the be stung, you put your hand just below his belt and feel Marko shift in his seat. You're shaking a hornet's nest. 

“How's that?" you ask, not expecting a serious reply. But his knee jerk reaction is to moan, to give you what you want to hear. "Does that feel nice?" a louder moan this time and he suddenly remembers himself. 

"Stop fuckin' around," he grumbles, sounding his age. 

“Whatever you say." your hand's replaced with your lips, the denim scraping a little against them. He hums but you want to hear him burst into song.

He notices your abandoned search for his undone belt buckle, but he’s hesitant to cease your worship, your outward expression of affection. You treat him like he could kill Goliath. 

Or that he’s just fucking sexy, one of the two. You pull away with a little smile on your mouth, one mirrored in his. His Cheshire Cat grin persists as your fingers finally return to the buckle.   
The necessity of shed clothes is small, you open him as much as you need. Maybe he’d like to be naked in this warm room, listening to humans talk through the vents about movies.   
You tuck the heavy buckle out of the way and undo his fly. You work quickly, the opposite of arduous lovemaking you’re usually fond of. This has been drawn out long enough. 

Tugging his boxers down is the easy bit, Marko’s distracted from his trickster tendencies and he lifts his hips. He appears as frustrated as you, cold and clearly hard from your hands. It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting, you know but he sees that you fully understand. His hand is heavy on the back of your head, his pressure insistent. 

You lean forward, skirting your tongue around the head of his cock and listening for that hitch in his breath. Happens every time. It’s cute, you promise him, so much about him is cute. Marko fits into your mouth well enough, your hand resting at the base to make up for what doesn’t fit. 

Rocky’s alive, you realize and nearly groan around the three inches you’ve swallowed so far. You pull away and his hand leaves your hair like he’s been burned.   
“What---” he almost looks nervous, you shake your head. Your hand keeps moving. 

“I’m fine. Turn the volume down, babe. I wanna hear you,” and his melting smile returns, he’s eagerly fumbling for the remote and the Sword of Damocles no longer hides the way Marko sounds. 

He’s truly something, you have to admit. Your eyes close, taking him back in your mouth with an expertise that eternity affords. Maybe you don’t give the best head, but you know exactly what he likes. 

Your elbow knocks against his knee again and Marko takes that as a sign that he can touch you again. His fingers in your hair feel nice, he knows how hard to tug like it’s a second nature.   
He’s not David, you know it. He does, too, he can’t bring himself to command. Your tongue dancing from hilt to tip has him in shambles. Marko would blush if he had the red blood cells. Instead you listen to that song you were hoping for when there was fabric between him and you, the chorus of shallow whines and denied half-thrusts. 

You’ve noticed he swears a lot, the timbre and volume changing depending on the sensation. It’s hardly limited to this, specific sex act but he seems semi-unaware of the fact that this room is hardly soundproof. You pull away for a second time, giving his thigh another bump. 

“You want Max to come in here again?” you ask.

“Fuck off,” he snaps. His ego’s the easiest to bruise, who’d’ve guessed? “I thought---” you trace circles into his leg with your finger, the motion unrepentantly lazy for the sudden haste. 

“I do want to hear you,” you say, averting your eyes for a moment. It’s all it takes, he lunges forward at you, grabbing your chin and pulling your gaze back where it belongs. His eyes are still blue but there’s fire around the edges, just waiting for a light. 

“Then who else matters?” you’re a little aghast, but you let him have one more kiss before it’s made clear that there will be no more interruptions. 

“You’re the boss,” you concede and you watch him glow bright as anything, brighter than half the boardwalk. Let Max hear, let every customer crammed in front of TV sets know what you’re doing in the back room. Let Santa Carla be on a first name basis. 

Marko seems interested enough in that, your name’s not far from the tip of his tongue. He leans back against the couch, lazy in a way that tells you to get on with it. Do your best. Choking on him is unappealing, you work your mouth around him with a little more finesse. When you’re tired your cheek falls to that same place as before, pillowed by his inner thigh. 

You kiss his stomach in the downtime between efforts, pushing his shirt up and giving him that affection he’d happily die for. You love him honestly, openly and he can feel it press against your dead chest. 

He taps you’re shoulder when he’s close, when he knows you’ll want him to. It’s passing a torch back to you, a return to regularly scheduled programming. Marko doesn’t come in your mouth, he knows you despise it. Instead, you have enough time pull away, to grin at him. He finishes on the ugly carpet, messy as anything with a moan-like scream. 

It’s haunting, you wonder if the world outside goes as still as you do. You watch him, waiting for his eyes to open. They do and your worries are shove aside by the wolfish smirk on his face. He doesn’t waste any time helping you up from your knees, pulling you back to him. 

There’s not as much movie left as you’d like, you turn your head towards his. The screen’s reflected in his eyes and his dreamy expression goes nowhere, there’s very little else you’d rather watch.


	4. The Vanishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i fell in love with david in the process of writing this!! but now that i've done one thing for each of the boys i'm not really ready to let this go?? so i'll probably dabble in some sfw chapters with dwayne and paul as well as something for star. maybe even michael.

Make no mistake, if he ever puts his teeth to your throat it will be to kill you.

Vampirism comes as a string of revelations like stinging barbs. You have to wonder why David sharpens each point with his tired drawl. He’s been the tough one too long. It’s completely cut out the need for fangs on skin, funnily enough. Drink of Max’s blood, kill and you will have forever to do it again and again indiscriminately.

You don’t know why he doesn’t want to trick you, David lays the cards on the table with a saucy tone of voice. He’s crafted a beautiful story, you wonder how many times he’s told it to himself.

“It’s easy,” he said to you with an air of mischief inside and out. “it’s too easy.” and heard it for a second, David sounded like he was nineteen and still mystified by things. He hides behind his love of crumbling infrastructure, concealing the fact that he’s old and no one will ever be able to tell. 

Once, he was something beautiful, an eagle living in the Santa Carla of his past. He still lives there, nestled in the crevices of history that the earthquake couldn’t drag to hell. 

You’re a plaything, surely. It’s what made you run from his stories. He said it all, the way your body will shut down if you drink and then reject the gift. The way your human memories will leak from your head. The truth will never split you open, he promises. All you have to do is swear that you’ll do harm in return.

But you do run from him, not far but the act speaks more than the distance. You dance on the edge of his reach, exceeding his grasp. You don’t care what heaven’s for, but forever scares you. Doing evil terrifies.

There’s nowhere you can go once he’s decided to have you, the fact that he can only understand permanence is a testament to his age. He puts half his weight on cold infinity, what a terrible way to live. It’s David’s cane and the stabbing in his heel that’s the cause of all this pain. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t keep you.

Your bedroom is so quiet compared to the constant barrage of noise in the cave. The wind chimes clatter against the starfish and CDs’, a boombox blasts whatever tape Marko nicks. You can hear their scuttling breath when they crawl away into the dark. But without it the world seems eerie, empty. Warmer but not like the sunshine. 

The sun, maybe you’d miss it. You tell yourself that you would, it makes it easier. 

You stare at the atrocious patterns above your head, seeing lifeless eyes in the popcorn ceiling. There’s a snake near the crown moulding, it’s tongue is shaped like David’s. His good intentions are nothing short of lethal, you remind yourself. He knows, hand to God that what he’s got is contagious. Youth sucks you dry, life’s a bitch.

What are your options? You tuck your knees up to your chest, wanting him to find you. Living in the centre of an eye is an exciting feeling. He’ll want you until you coax blood from a jugular, what’ll happen after that?

He told you the technical truth, something you can wrap your head around. You can stitch pieces of what he’s said to the gaps in your understanding. Dracula, Lestat, you’re not an idiot. But the real testament to his honesty goes unstated. His alternative to a pulse is his secrecy. Or maybe he just doesn’t know himself. 

Maybe he thinks he’ll settle this time, love you hard enough to save a bastardization of a soul. He weaponizes his love in the process, now where did he learn something like that?

There’s a tap on your window, a tree branch that sounds like nails. Or the other way around. You don’t look, you look at the horrible ceiling.

It looks like stars with your eyes half-closed. Your room’s dark, you could walk up into that sky. You could fly if you knew how, if you let him teach you. Your heart’s jerked quite violently towards the tapping at the window.

Is the fact that you want him there what makes it so? 

The confrontation is surprisingly non-violent, you rise from your bed before you’ve identified the glittering eyes as his. But they are, he’s sitting in the tree outside like he’s weightless. 

Your hand shakes as it curls around the latch. He could break the glass without a second thought, shatter it and snap your neck. Maybe he could force an always. But he doesn’t, he looks ancient. He knows the price he’ll pay if he plays the wrong hand. 

The window swings inward with a creak, the warm night air hits you like a sweltering blanket. David looks cold as moonlight. 

“Come in,” you have to tell him that. You never let him before, but handing this to him in an outstretched palm doesn’t mean that you’re his. He doesn’t say anything, but he hops down from the branch and into your last safe place. 

He brushes past you, looking at your darkened room. His back’s to you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. He’s bartering, trying to riddle out the meaning. “And here I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.” David turns and your eyes could make him stagger. He saves himself the embarrassment of faltering at the last second. 

“Jury’s still out, David.” your arms cross over your chest, hugging yourself. The air conditioning feels freezing cold with the heat behind you. 

“Figures,” he’s tracked dirt onto your carpet, he notices when his eyes fall to the floor. He’s the closest you’ve seen to ashamed, unable to look at you. 

Small victories. But what you could get used to doesn’t last and he considers his behaviour rude for less than a moment. 

“But like I said,” he starts, “you didn’t have to let me in.” he shrugs like he’s only stating the truth. Maybe he’s right. 

“I like you,” you mumble, it’s a moment before you find your voice. “but maybe I don’t want to be like you.” that’s as close as you’ll come to trading blows, it hits him hard. 

“I like you, too,” he states. Whether he intends to ignore that important caveat remains to be seen. “that’s why I want you to be like us.” 

Us, a happy family. He knows your home’s like his was, a wreck of flames and twisted metal. It sounds inviting, you want to be an us again. He smiles, it’s teetering on the edge of genuine. 

“Come on,” he says. He says your name and his arms are open. 

“You’ll get bored of me,” it’s shocking you haven’t shared that before now with how much it weighs on your mind. “you’ll forget me.” 

“It could happen,” he admits it but it doesn’t drag you down. It makes you feel light, trusted. You step away from the warm night and towards him, his eyes widen. 

As much as you’d like to stop at a safe distance, you can’t. You cross the room and you hug him with enough force to knock him back. You’re mortal and you changed something, you decide that has meaning. 

“It feels good to hear the truth,” you say. His arms fold around you with a particular protectiveness. You bury your head in the front of his jacket, forehead to David’s shoulder. “better than a lie, worlds better.” there’s a rumbling of agreement from him. 

“You know, you might feel the same in a few hundred years,” he speaks above you and you want to look at his eyes. Your head tilts up, away from safety but in no danger. “you might get bored of me.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask, it’s chased by a half-hearted noise that could be laughter. His pressure’s affectionate, tightening just slightly. 

“Not exactly,” he says. “but you’ll have power, too.” 

“Power over you?” you ask. 

“Power over me,” his confirmation makes your heart stutter against his still chest. Your brow furrows. “I’ll let you grow old if it’s what you really want. I’ve heard it isn’t so bad,” 

You can’t stop yourself from wanting to make him smile. 

“When’d my bedroom become church?” it works, he doesn’t laugh but a grin curves on his mouth. 

“Six hours from never,” he says. He’s ignoring the weight of what he said, too. “let’s hope.” 

“I want to grow old with you,” a curveball. His grip loosens, maybe out of shock or disgust. You don’t let him create distance. “you know,” your tone takes a turn for the casual, “as long as we’re confessing.” 

He doesn’t need to tell you that’s never going to happen, you understand that. Wishful thinking’s a bitch, too. So when he looks uncertain, unable to find a way to laugh at your sincerity you kiss him. 

It’s a good kiss, you can admit that. He’s frigid and what you need, your arms wrap around his neck. His head tilts to the side, David gives himself up. 

“Can I decide tomorrow night?” you ask, breathless in the spaces between this embrace. He nods readily. “If I have to, I’ll do it---” you stumble, trying to find the right way to speak what you mean now that you’ve done it once. 

David decides to end this before it gets painful. His arms tighten around you, he lifts you up and your noise of surprise sounds like music. You can cry so long as you’re laughing. 

“Put me down, you’re such a---” to be fair, he does as you say. He drops you on your bed, you land with a thud on the mattress. He stands in front of you, you watch him take his gloves off. 

“Such a what?” he already knows. 

“I’m not gonna say it. I wanted to kiss and make up?” his smile comes back, a little crueler in the half-light. His amusement always looks a little like devil-worship. 

“Oh, is that all?” he’s already sounding bored, staring you down from above. He knows that it isn’t and the way you look at him confirms it. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you hold out a hand. After a quick hesitation, he takes it. David lets you pull him down onto the bed beside you. 

He’s like a snake, coiling in an instant. A moth to a flame, he has to be able to feel how warm you are by comparison. It’s striking, shockingly addictive and those killer-teeth come dangerously close to your neck. 

Your chest presses to his and he seems uninterested in talking. He kisses you again, firmer this time. There’s a scraping sensation across your lower lip, you open your mouth and let him in. 

This is the point at which he likes to seize his control. David isn’t used to bowing or scraping in any situation, least of all where his pleasure is concerned. And yet he’s oddly still, lying next to you with your soul very nearly weaving itself into the fabric of his. 

So it’s new territory now as he stays on equal footing with you. Neither moves to rise and take monopoly, he’s trying to be good. He wants to earn your decision to stay with him by proving that he doesn’t have to dictate everything. 

And you accept it, you nearly bruise yourself trying to be close to him. David ignites you from within, creating heat from a deep freeze and light with no sun. You open your eyes, looking at him lying there almost naturally. He exists on your turf, on your terms. 

You kiss his jaw, his neck and you’re careful not to bite. You’ve never had his blood in your mouth either, you’re not sure what you’ll choose tomorrow but your decision is for then. He’s silent for a change. 

I might not choose you, you want to tell him this. He needs to know, to understand that whatever happens tonight won’t influence you. Lovemaking might be slang for goodbye in this situation, you need him to be all right with that. 

You pull back, watching him. His face is cut from the darkness by the light of the moon. Half-cast in shadow, you realize that you don’t need to tell him anything. 

“If you want more,” he says and it’s clear to you that more has nothing to do with his nature. “take it.” 

It’s out of his hands just like that, you hold it but you don’t pull. You don’t move to rise above him, to capture him between your thighs and take until you’ve had your fill. You kiss his neck and you begin to undress. 

An hour ago you fooled yourself into thinking you’d sleep. Getting ready for bed provided enough of a distraction until David appeared out of nowhere and took up the mantle. You tug your t-shirt over your head without a second thought. His outer coat lands heavily on your floor. 

The subtle destruction of the peace doesn’t bother you, the two of you split with the intention of returning. For a second, however, you bridge the gap. You reach out and grab his hand. With a smirk you tug his leather gloves off, finger by finger. 

He watches you with wandering eyes, amused. You let him go too soon in his opinion, you can read it on his face. 

You turn away from him, sitting on the edge of your bed and undoing your bra, tossing it in the direction of the open window. Your underwear follows suit, you hear his breath hitch behind you. 

Lying down again’s a little too easy. He’s been idle, you realize, watching you shed your clothes. David’s still covered for the most part. Suddenly his shirt can’t join yours fast enough. It’s a little funny. 

He kneels on the bed, still in boots and jeans. You hold up a hand. 

“Don’t even think about it. Not until you’re naked.” he shows his teeth but they’re not sharp. He doesn’t stop, not right away. He presses a kiss to your bare hip before doing as he’s told. David’s cold-blooded and handsome, tugging at what hides him until there’s nothing left but skin. 

“Like the view?” he asks, you look him up and down. 

“It’s something, for sure.” you say. You’ve finally tugged a laugh from him, victory exists quite comfortably in your heart as he finds his way back to you. He’s lying next to you before you know it, pulling you against him. You barely notice the chill of his chest on yours.

“Funny, it’s not half-bad from where I am,” he’s chasing your blush and it’s not up to you if you give it to him. The colour in your cheeks isn’t fairly won, David knows that, but he revels in it. 

“Stop looking, start---” he knows what to start doing. He takes handfuls of you, your hips and breasts. He grips your ass and dips his head, kisses your shoulder. David gets so perilously close to the only place he can’t have but falls just short, like he knows he’ll lose you if he gives in. 

Your leg curls around his hip, his cock presses against your stomach but he seems intent on rendering you unable to focus. For the moment you’re caught up in the way he touches you. He’s never one to stay in one place for very long, he moves his hands up your body leaving lines of ice in his wake. If you opened your eyes, you’re certain you’d see traces of where his fingers have explored. 

“Please,” you say before you can stop yourself. His hand’s between your thighs. David’s suddenly feather-light in his ministrations, carefully brushing sensitive places. 

“What was that?” he asks. You whimper, his middle finger circles your clit in a slow, repetitive motion. “Say it again.” 

You almost expect it to be ripped from your throat, he has that power. He could make you see what he wants you to see, it’d make sense if words worked the same. But no, when you repeat yourself it’s of your own volition. David sighs, louder this time. The barrier’s broken, he’s waking up. 

His vocalizations are here now, you discover as you remember your faculties. Your hand joins his hunt for pleasure, touching and pressing where he likes it best. Your fist around his cock makes him stutter, bucking like he can’t help himself. 

That power David was talking about, it does feel nice. 

He’s too used to control and his fingers fit inside you to try and reclaim it. You kiss his neck again with a little more force, a gentle reminder that this is not a competition. Moans are not a currency, you freely tell him how good this feels. 

Your other hand grips his back, he’s always liked a little pain with his pleasure. He twitches in your fist, groaning your name like it’s something he needs to hide. 

“I’m ready,” you tell him, shifting against him to better the angle. His fingers curl inside you, brushing somewhere that makes you gasp. And then they leave. He’s ready, too. 

And now he’s decided not to waist any time. His cock pushes inside you with a haste you adore. You wrap your arms around his neck, scratching at his back hard enough for him to feel it. He fits in you snugly, the way he shivers makes your heart soar. 

The act’s rough, David sets a rhythm that you wholeheartedly match. Fast and hard is how the both of you like it when foreplay reaches its natural conclusion. He buries his head in your neck, you go stiff but his mouth stays out of the equation. His teeth don’t brush your pounding pulse. He isn’t going to kill you, he’s going to love you hard. 

If this is a secret ploy to get you to choose wild sex for the distant future it’s not unconvincing. He’s a good lay, David reminds you of that with his precise thrusts. He’s mapped out your interior, he knows what buttons to push. 

You have a choice, you know this. He’ll make you feel this way for a finite amount of time either way, he’s too close with the certainty that forever brings. As much as you worry you’ll never see him again, you will. 

David doesn’t touch you like a plaything, it just took a while to realize that. There’s a heaviness, he wants to have you and you to have him back. Your eyes open, you stare at your desk against the wall opposite the window. They close again, you press your lips to the side of his head. 

Maybe this won’t be as good if you’re not human, maybe it’ll be better. The thought’s shoved to the side of your mind by the much louder ones that come with an impending orgasm. I love you’s pushing against your frontal lobe, but you don’t speak it. 

Instead you make a chorus out of ‘oh, my God’, ff ‘fuck’ and ‘please’. He gets you begging again with his middle finger repeating that same motion. You squeeze your eyes tight, bearing down around him and muffling the sound of your scream. You go a little limp, you have to admit. Your hip hurts from the angle it’s at but it doesn’t last. He pulls out of you and your leg still curved around him can retreat. 

Who knows what’d happen if he came in you, you’d rather not think about it. Instead, you put your hand where it was before. You give it to him the way he gave, fast and perfect. He’s spilling onto your fingers and bedspread before he has time to bite back an echo of your name. David goes quiet after that, as drained as you of energy. 

You hold him through a shift in structure, from hard muscle to primordial relaxation. He lets you hold him. When you’re dead you won’t give him warmth, you remind yourself. When. Life, like his interest, will fade from you. How fatalistic. The only thing that’s not is its source, you cling to him just as readily and let him cool your fire.


	5. Prequel I, Sun in Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i unabashedly love paul and wanted to write him more. this is fluffy and kinda stupid but i had fun.

You could wrap your legs around Santa Carla, around its smoky haze and tilted lights. You could sweet-talk its secrets. What you did to earn a whole summer with this nightlife is beyond you, but thankful can’t begin to describe how you feel about it. 

California’s hot, even after dark and the humidity climbs with the crowds of tourists flocking to the Giant Dipper and the ferris wheel. Your senses are on their own vacation, drinking in the atmosphere and the burning stars above. There’s going to be a concert tonight, you’re told. But rides come first. 

Your friend group looks more like a cluster of starry-eyed girls, giggling to each other and people-watching to make the lines seem less arduously long. One of them swears that the surfers in this city are the hottest that Southern California has to offer. Another promises the biker boys are the stuff of dreams. 

“Like them?” you ask, pointing towards the edge of the boardwalk. There’s a group there, similar in number to your own like a smear of soot on the otherwise colourful backdrop. They emerge from the shadows on stripped-down motorcycles. You can’t make out one from the other at this distance but you don’t look away when the girl you asked answers, 

“Uh-huh, told you. They’re a dime-a-dozen around here, but I just love looking at them.” you nod, almost distantly while the conversation moves forward. You’re left behind, still watching the group as they leave their bikes and strut through the pier. 

They get close enough to distinguish. A boy with white-blond hair and a double-breasted long coat takes the natural lead. The only one with dark hair glowers to his left. The other two are unremarkable at first, eccentric and golden-blond wearing the contents of their grandfather’s steamer trunks. At least one of them’s got a cool jacket. 

And then the tall one, the one who could’ve exited a tour bus with that hair looks at you. It’s preposterous, the way things change suddenly. Oh no, you think. He’s going to be a very big problem. 

This summer will be a catastrophe if everyone looks like this in Santa Carla. Or maybe you’re lucky, what are the odds? It doesn’t sink in immediately the oddness of him, the way you find yourself nearly following him as he walks by. You’re stopped by the rail, still watching as he watches you. His head turns as he passes you until the boy with the dark hair brings a heavy hand down on his shoulder. The problem looks away. 

But there’s remnants of the spell, a desire to seek him out even after he’s been swallowed by the throng. You aren’t distressed without him, nor violent or saddened. Just aching a little, maybe, like he came in and flicked on a light switch. Like he made you realize you’re sitting in an empty room. Your friends aren’t instantly strangers, but his gaze is something worth finding and holding again. 

Nobody’s noticed your shift in demeanour and they don’t until you tap one of them on the shoulder. 

“Did you know those guys? I mean specifically?” there’s a shake of heads, they’ve been seen around before but nobodies ever asked for names. “I saw one of them when they walked by, I think I know him,” you lie, it’s a little clumsy. You only want to know him, there’s a difference but it’s easier to explain. 

To be fair, it’s left unsaid that you’re going to find him. It’s like you skipped that step in explanation and instead find yourself gravitating towards the metal railing separating the Giant Dipper line from everyone else. You hop over it. 

Your friends don’t try to stop you, they only let you know that they’re not saving your place in line. You’d laugh along with them under different circumstances but you’ve gone before the teasing can take its toll, running after the beautiful boy. 

Now you know how a puppet feels, or at least partially. There’s a string tied to a valve in your heart, tugging you forward. This is hardly a graceful search, you’re stumbling through the crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of blond hair on a black morning coat. 

There’s no panic, no frenzy, only hopeful searching with occasional pauses once you think you’ve got him. You don’t, time and time again. That lonely feeling doesn’t grow, but it hurts a little worse as you begin to wonder if he’s slipped right through your fingers. 

But he clearly wants to be found, or wants to find you. 

The boy’s there when you turn and give up, ready to head back to the roller coaster and spend the rest of the evening on autopilot. He must’ve saw you first, his eyes are blue and they could burn holes. 

He’s smirking, able to part the sea of people as he walks towards you. You’re frozen stiff in the heat all of a sudden, until you can’t stand the thought of being passive in the face of perfection. You move to him as well, politely asking people to move. 

“Hi,” his voice sounds like one of those secrets you could sweet-talk, full-bodied and inviting. It attacks your sense. “haven’t seen you around here before, I’m Paul,” 

His name’s Paul and he’s not alone. The other boys, the ones he was with appear beside him as you’re telling him your name. The one with the bleach-blond hair gets close enough for Paul to put his hand on his shoulder, he does. 

“Now, who’s this?” the leader asks, he looks at you but it’s in a different way. He looks hungry, Paul just looks happy. 

“She’s with me,” he says when you can’t even open your mouth to respond. You feel small under the new boy’s scrutinizing gaze, like a pebble at his boot. Paul’s declaration has you blinking in surprise. He takes that hot, sick feeling away. 

“Am I?” you ask, pleased that you sound confrontational instead of confused. Your smile comes back, he seems pleased with that. 

“You are now, if that’s what you want,” he sounds so casual about it, leaving the bleach-blond like he’s grown bored of him. Paul stands toe-to-toe with you, head tilted slightly back with that same smirk on his mouth. 

You don’t look at the guy who looks at you like you’re an insect. Your eyes don’t flit to the one with dark hair or the mullet. You stare back at Paul before lifting an eyebrow, turning away before motioning with your head for him to follow. 

“Okay,” you say to hide the fact that you don’t know where you’re going as he tails you. His friends fall back in search of fun that’ll crumble under pressure a little easier. “I’m here for the summer,” you tell him. 

“Cool,” he replies like it’s really something special. He falls into step beside you. “want me to show you around?” 

“You’re a local?” you ask, it’s obvious now that you’ve got a closer look at him. He’s no surfer but the confidence in his gait’s as tell-all as it gets. He knows the planks beneath his feet. 

“You’d better believe it,” he trails off, still looking at you like he’s trying to hide something. You are, too. 

“Then yeah, I guess. You can show me stuff,” it occurs to you that you’re both similarly terrible at pretending this situation isn’t entirely bizarre. You don’t know why you wanted to have this but now that you’re walking towards the other end of the boardwalk with him, you’re happy for it. 

He wanted to find you, too. You wonder if the sensation were as intense for him, you look at him out of the corner of your eye every chance you get. 

Shops breeze by in a flash of swirling colours, you stop at vendors that intrigue you with a faux-indifference to whether or not he follows you. Paul always does. He browses a little himself, looking pins and knick-knacks with a boredom you’re not used to. You don’t buy anything and the safety pins on his jacket gain no new friends. 

The record shop’s where he comes alive. No, that’s not right. He’s been alive the whole time, stealing looks and making conversation. But it shines out his eyes, glowing bright as daylight when he’s found the music. 

“Check this out,” he nudges you and the shock of it has you reeling. This whole time he hasn’t touched you, it’s jarring to know for certain that he’s solid. A very beautiful hallucination seemed plausible up until now. “1984, you like Van Halen?” 

“I like anything I can dance to,” that seems to satisfy him more than a yes. His elbow nudges your shoulder again. 

“You could dance to this,” but he puts it back, you frown and he notices. “I already got it. Maybe I’ll show you the collection some time.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you can’t help yourself, you reach out and push back at him. Your hand settles at the back of his neck for just a moment. A smile on your face, you pull away. “where to next if you’ve got it all on vinyl?” 

He nods in the direction of the exit, passing you without answering your question. Paul doesn’t need to get as close to you as he does in the process, a shiver runs up your spine and suddenly you’re the one following him. 

When the night air surrounds you again he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He holds one between his teeth while fishing for his lighter. Smoke coils around his head as you tail him.

Paul’s fast, it’s how he got away in the first place. It isn’t too much of a struggle to keep up, but you find your internal question posed without your full consent. 

“Can I hold your hand?” blushing doesn’t quite begin to cover it. You like the moon had the ability to burn. He doesn’t seem to notice, he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“You don’t have to ask,” he responds, quicker than you expect. It isn’t until you reach for him, press your palm against his that the mortified look on your face is washed away by concern.

“Oh, you’re freezing cold,” you say. But you don’t pull away, you do the opposite, you seize the sleeve of your cardigan and tug it partially over his frigid hand. Paul’s looking at you like you’re a curiosity. He blows the smoke away from your face, looking like it pains him to tear his eyes from you. 

“My circulation’s for shit,” he says and you choose to believe him. It makes sense, you suppose. You don’t push it, you try to keep him warm.

“You’ve lived here all your life?” you ask, remembering what he said about locality. He shrugs. 

“Dunno,” he says. He sounds different, you look away from the oncoming pedestrian traffic. There’s confusion in his face that looks deep-rooted. It shifts to something haughtier when he sees you looking. “don’t remember anywhere else.” 

It’s an odd thing to say, for sure, but the off-beat nature of him has you choosing to forget that. 

“You’re a weirdo,” you say instead. Paul looks like Christmas came early, you have to wonder why he’d be so pleased that you aren’t pushing the topic. Unless it’s a pressure point, you tuck that away into the back of your mind. 

“That’s what they all say,” he starts, “until they come chasin’ after me.” he bumps into you with a wicked grin and you’ve learned that the polite response is a returning gesture. You elbow him in the ribs with a laugh. 

“Hey, you ran after me, too,” he drops his cigarette, crushing it under his boot. 

“Guilty,” is all he says about that. Fair enough. 

You wander across the pier, watching people win prizes at carnival games and blow their cash on leather jackets. You’re content to be an observer tonight, you can meet up with your friends later on and ride all the rides you want. You’d rather this, this high-energy outsider perspective. 

He pulls you right past the comic store, telling you it’s kid stuff. Part of you wants to tug him back towards the place, to force him to help you find something with Wonder Woman on the cover. But his hand grips yours beneath your cardigan. You let him pull you away. 

There’s music, the start of the concert and you see bleach-blond in the crowd with the other boys staying close to him. To your surprise, Paul pulls you away again. 

“You keep interesting friends,” you say, making sure to phrase it as close to a compliment as you can. Paul seems to settle on leaning against a stone wall tucked a little ways away from the shredding guitar solo.

“Could say that,” he says. “I’ve known ‘em forever, David, Marko and Dwayne.” His hand leaves yours and you feel the crushing weight of loss. But instead he pats the section of wall next to him, you lean against it. Your side’s close to his. Without another word, you reach out and take his hand again. It’s only slightly warmer than before. 

“What?” you say when you look up and his eyes are on you again. “you said I didn’t have to ask.”

“I did, didn’t I?” there’s a shrug, a sense that he likes being touched but isn’t used to its reciprocation. “knock yourself out.” 

He’s given you free reign to be greedy, or at least you take it like that. You hold his hand in both of yours, keeping your eyes off his eyes for a change. He’s got nice hands, you can admit that. They’re rough, a little calloused from gripping motorcycle handlebars. Maybe from a shredding guitar solo of his own. 

But they’re so death-cold, you’re worried and you can’t help it in the slightest. It breaks the haze of him, the trance-like state that makes Paul such a problem. You don’t know why but you put your mouth to his palm. You kiss him carefully, maybe twice. It’s the clearest blur you’ve ever felt, the sharpest clarity you can’t remember in full detail. 

You kiss his knuckles, he balls his hand into a loose fist and lets you do it. 

“I had fun,” you start to say, deciding that now’s the time to look up at him. He’s lightning-struck, speechless again like you asked after the gaps in his memories. But the expression on his face speaks so honestly of unfamiliarity.

It passes quick enough. He’s a teenage boy who’s uncomfortable with admitting his own vulnerability. Paul leaves the brick, he rounds on you faster than you expect. 

You wouldn’t mind if he kissed you, you decide. He looks like he’s considering it when he’s not battling with something else. Who the hell is this guy? You ask yourself. 

Instead of thinking about it, you close your eyes. Paul takes it rightfully as his invitation. There’s a sound of settling fabric and cold, cold hands on your hips. His nails are sharp as rib bones, they press into your waist. You don’t remember him having nails when you were exploring the way his knuckles meet his fingers. But he draws you up, his head turns and his lips press against yours. All other thoughts are chased off. 

It’s not a quiet kiss, you put your hands in his hair and the talkative boy’s groaning to the fullest extent. His grip’s tight, tight, tight. 

Paul’s teeth feel sharp against your mouth and you’re reminded of the way he elbows you. You make a decision, pressing your tongue to his bottom lip before he can ask the same. 

He allows you entry and push back, away from the wall and against him. It’s a little too close to a high, you have to admit, the feeling of confusion and contentment skating across your mind. You’re fairly sure that you shouldn’t be doing this, that he’s off-putting and unusual. Maybe this is a burgeoning regret. 

Or maybe he gives a decent kiss, groans and all. You tug at his hair while he claws your waist, doing what you wanted to the moment you saw him. Clearly, you understand, the feeling’s entirely mutual. 

This is similar to diving into the deep end and running out of air. There’s a paint burning sensation, entirely pleasurable and the feeling of cool-closeness when everything else is light and heat sets the experience apart. You found someone special on the first try, and he found you, too. 

He may very well be more of a problem than you initially understood. It’s not dark where you are, a ways away from the concert but it is quite deserted. So when you pull away and open your eyes, taking lungfuls of hot air you’re the only one who sees what you do. 

Paul’s face is different, corpse-like somehow in the half-light. His brows are menacing, his upper lip pulled up into a snarl. You know now why his teeth felt so sharp against your skin. His eyes are no longer blue, distant and amused. He’s scary, grinning at you like he’s expecting a scream. 

It doesn’t come, you wish you knew why. It would be easy enough to push at him, to take off down the boardwalk yelling for anyone who’ll listen. You shrink away from him, but his arms around you don’t let you get very far. 

“Are you---” you only want to know if he’s all right, what’s wrong with him. Is there anything wrong? Your hands are still free, you could hit him. You could drag him back by the hair and try to split his skull. 

You take your hands from his hair, hopefully able to hide your dawning terror. But he was nice, wasn’t he? He didn’t try to hurt you, he showed you a little piece of Santa Carla. What’s wrong with his face, why now? What happened? 

You don’t get answers, instead your warm hands cup his cold cheeks and lean in for what felt right and safe. You kiss him again, aware now of the real danger his fangs pose. 

Ignorance is, in this case, something of a blessing. Maybe he intended to rip your throat out with those shark-teeth. The reality of him going full jaws on the pier won’t hit you until much later. But Paul goes stiff, like you’ve killed him and rigour mortis is just setting in. 

There’s an uncomfortable tightening around your waist, his boa constrictor grip putting pressing on your spine. You whimper against the lips that aren’t kissing you back, it seems to change things. 

You don’t get that second kiss, but he does let you go. It’s a moment before your hands fall away from his face, before you back away from the wall looking at him with awe and fear. 

“Goodbye,” you stutter out. Why on earth did you say that? His face doesn’t change but he cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t say it back. “I--- I had fun, Paul. I--- I like you,” 

His snarl looks less menacing, less like he intends to do you bodily harm. It doesn’t feel right to just run off and leave him looking like he doesn’t know himself anymore. 

“And I--- I don’t mean goodbye forever,” stupid, stupid, stupid. You should leave, you should go. You’ve seen something bad, something wrong. “I’m just--- I think I’m gonna go home now. You should, too.” 

You take another step back and there’s nothing left to say, it’s when you turn and start off down the boardwalk towards the parking lot. Your friends won’t be there and it’s hard, it’s extremely hard not to look back at him. 

Behind you, unseen, Paul’s face takes a turn. He steps away from the wall, too looking handsome in the electricity. He watches your back and feels that tug, like a string to snap. It doesn’t, however and he can’t bring himself to smile at the situation. Instead, he does something that makes sense. He rejoins his group.


	6. Prequel II, Where I'm Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> swinging wildly back around to dwayne because i had so, so much fun writing his chapter. this isn't as clear-cut a prequel but??? it's definitely a thing.

Due in large part to extraneous factors, you will never go where the world’s asleep. To do so would be welcoming unpleasant, existential thinking into your waiting and fragile psyche. You’d rather not press against the veil, you’re nervous about what might pour through the smallest tear. 

The lights and hullabaloo are a fine distraction, an up-and-coming fixation to cleverly drown any real terror at your present existence. It creeps in every few years. 

You hold Dwayne’s hand tightly, the deafening din feels like nothing more than radio static when you’re with him. So you’ll never be without him, it’s long-since been accepted. 

The other boys have their girls, they meander. For at least a little while, you do the same. But then you almost forget the necessity of the noise to keep you from being haunted. You only want quiet, him and painful quiet. 

“Let’s go back to the bikes,” you say in his ear. You have your arms locked around his waist, still in the face of an oncoming crowd and leaning heavily against him. Dwayne looks down at you, a lifted eyebrow the only indication of an expression. 

“Bored already?” He asks and you find yourself nodding, even though it’s not true. 

“I don’t know why we bother here,” you tease. You know exactly why, it would be a form of self harm to languish in eternal misery. 

“Yeah,” Dwayne agrees just as superficially, “it’s dead tonight.” 

It’s not, this is a circling lie. But it means you get to put all the pressure on him to keep you happy, and he on you. It’s fun to watch the balancing act, you guess. Back to the bikes it is. 

People know to give you a wide berth, the cold and the intense stares do the trick. But Dwayne doesn’t feel dead against your skin, at least not by comparison. You hold onto him to keep yourself grounded, the liminal space that is the boardwalk feels especially detached. 

“See anyone you like?” You ask him, he’s always watching the crowd for interesting people. It’s a hobby. 

“No,” he replies. His eyes follow a girl, part of a swarm of them and all laughing. Dwayne’s head snaps back to forward-facing before they’re fully out of his line of sight. 

It isn’t that he prefers children, he just has a way with them. They like the strong, silent-types. Who doesn’t want to be protected? The parentless kids are innumerable, scuttling over the pier like rats. There’s been a few hangers-on, you’ve noticed them watching the two of you with round eyes but they’ve moved on. The spell’s broken. 

“Me either,” you confess. The moon appears halted in the sky over your head, too tired to set even in a sluggish way. Any other time and that would be a blessing, too often it feels like the night rockets around to day in a few minutes. You don’t know how to articulate the malaise, the stabbing pain you have coupled with a desire to see someone you knew once. 

Much of your memories are gone, as are his. Max is a permanent fixture, but this tugging sensation isn’t new and your sire has nothing to do with it. You want something, someone but you can’t put a name or face to it. 

The crowd thins near the start of the beach. You look distant as you veer off away from the steps towards the stripped-down bikes. Pulling your arms away from Dwayne, you fold inward a little. 

“You ever---” you cut yourself off, looking to him with an expression of indecipherable confusion. “you ever think we’re missing something?” You ask. You keep walking, boots heavy on the concrete. 

“All the time,” Dwayne replies. You’re a little shocked. 

“How do you mean?” You ask. He snorts, passing you and leaning against his bike that’s propped up against the railing. 

“How did you mean it?” Dwayne’s eyes are lidded and dark, watching your curiosity with a blasé indifference that you know isn’t real. 

“Just sort of came out, I don’t really know.” But you return to him, leaning against his bike as well. Pressed to his side, it doesn’t take long for him to wrap his arm around you. 

“I think I get it,” he always does. He’s not just protection and strength, you remember. 

“Really?” You press your cheek against his leather jacket. “I think I wanted kids, Dee.” 

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like he’s strangling a long sigh. “me too.” 

“I think I’m way too old for this.” He hums. It’s hard in that moment, with him feeling solid and safe next to you, to remember the ghosts around you. But they’re closing in. 

“We’re not that old,” Dwayne reminds you. He’s trying to make you feel better, you admire that. “what’s sixty years?”

“Or seventy,” you reply. It’s all such a blur. He nods like you expect him to. 

“But we got forever. Don’t tell me you got regrets,” his voice sounds so unlike himself. The usual reservation gives way near the middle, you can tell he’s worried. 

Rather than reply, you turn your head and press your forehead to his neck. You close your eyes and let out a needless sigh instead of responding. You want so badly to tell him no, you don’t, you’re fine. But you can’t, you do, you aren’t. 

“Jeez,” he says, his volume rises just slightly, the exclamation nearly scaring you in comparison to how otherwise quiet he is. But Dwayne doesn’t tense up, thank goodness. He doesn’t pull away and force you to try and exist without someone to lean on. 

“I know,” you reply. “just--- just give me a minute. I’m tired.” It could be that, you hope it is. You can’t remember if you’ve ever felt ennui this strongly, nights bleed in on themselves and bad feelings are ousted in favour of the good. 

“Bad nights happen,” he says. His voice is quiet again, you wonder if he’s trying to pin his own memories to the way you’re acting. Has he really been here, too? Or have you forgotten the way he’d need to lean on you? 

You don’t say anything, letting the conversation collapse around you. Maybe that’s a bad choice, but small talk’s a lot to ask. To Dwayne’s credit, he holds you the way you like. It’s not all-consuming, just a half-hug with a tight grip that’ll leave fingerprint bruises. 

For the first time, the silence scares him. You carry things with you, tailed by a handful of spectres with unfamiliar shapes but you’ve never been up-front about it. An idiot would miss it, still. 

You’re cold against Dwayne, your mind swimming with the desire to reach out and touch whatever won’t leave you be. Is it your mother? You haven’t thought about her in a long time. You suppose she’s dead now. It would make sense. 

He feels compelled to find something to pull you from the crook of his neck. It’s not right, feeling this way, it defeats the purpose. Worries about death and missing out are for people who have to die one day. 

So he breaks a promise with himself, with you. It’s not like it was ever spoken or confirmed, but he’s known you nearly as long as his friends with one important understanding to foster a deeper bond. Effort isn’t necessary. 

You comfort each other by virtue of existence, healing hurts with time and quiet conversation. Louder distractions, while not frowned upon, are left to the rest. 

“You want to go for a ride?” He asks, putting you in a new position. You’re content to hug him until the pain stops or the sun comes up, whichever’s first. You’re content to venture out into the nightlife to forget the pain, he doesn’t usually offer something other than advice. 

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’ll drive.” Dwayne shrugs. 

“Cool, here,” the arm not around you reaches into his jacket pocket. He hands the keys your way. 

You leave him, mounting the motorbike with a second-nature grace. It won’t be the first time you’ve fired up an engine to quiet any invasive thoughts, but it will be the first he’s involved himself in it. 

There’s a comforting rumble to the engine, Dwayne’s arms encircle your waist quite by choice. He knows not to fall off his bike, after all, but you’re grateful for the broken touch barrier. 

“Where to?” You ask. His chin on your shoulder is a new but welcome feeling. He gives your middle a squeeze. 

“Anywhere you want,” he replies. You turn your head, that permeable safety returning in a way that gives you hope. 

But your sideways glance gives you an eyeful of the world behind you. For a second, just a second you swear you saw someone you knew. But their face, if they had one, is gone from both your sight and your memory when you try to focus in on them. Someone dances at the edge of your mind, you can’t begin to wonder who. 

Dwayne’s on the edge of you, though. He’s tangible and when you place a messy kiss on his forehead, seeing as it’s what you can reach, he doesn’t complain. 

Riding his bike’s not quite second nature, but to his credit he doesn’t attempt to commandeer the handles. He leaves it to you, pressed to your back and nearly engulfing you as you speed off down the side-street. 

The boardwalk gives way to the beach eventually and even without stairs the stuttering change from wood to sand is always jarring. He grips you a little tighter, you can feel his mouth by your ear. 

“Don’t fall off,” he sounds like he’s having fun, at least. Dwayne’s smile is one you can hear. As much as you’d love to brush him off, literally, you’re too worried it’ll prove his point. 

But you adjust to the texture of the ground, careful not to oversteer as you push the gas on the way to the asphalt road out of town. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to, you need an escape. 

Going back to where it started is out of the question, the details of when or how you took Max’s blood in your mouth are like washed-out watercolours. You remember the copper-taste, the pulsating jugular of a young woman with a cameo pin that came shortly after. But if she screamed, if you did when you saw what you’d done, it’s just a hollow ringing in the back of your mind. 

The cliff looks romantic from here, overlooking haze and the world you would find very beautiful under different circumstances. Everything in you screams that you look over your shoulder again, that you look the ghost haunting you in the eye.

But you don’t, you stay focused on the road. Dwayne has your back, you have to trust him. 

You follow the curve up the hill, accelerating a little faster than even he might. The wind feels wonderful in your hair, on your face and it blows the fear straight from your mind. The moonlight and half-busted lamps mark the path towards the secluded peak. 

The rise and fall of foot traffic is something you’re accustomed to, aware of the way the weekends tend to crowd. It’s perfect for feeding, less so when battling something existential. You could go for a bite right about now, you think. It might take the edge off. 

But there’s no one here, just as you were hoping. Your desire for food comes second to your desire for him and no one else. 

The ghost at the pier got close, got right up behind you but you choose to think that Dwayne’s unburdened by something so specifically evil. You choose to kill the engine at the edge of the cliff and twist yourself around to look at him. 

“Didn’t want to go far in case the other guys finish up sooner than usual,” you tell him. Dwayne puts an arm around you again. 

“Good choice, I like it up here.” You nod. 

“Me too, you can almost see the stars.” And you can, out towards the fathomless sea. Isn’t that always how it is? Dark shit’s always in close proximity to something beautiful. Could be a metaphor, you don’t want to think about it. 

“So, why are you scared?” He asks. The question’s more in-line with how he handles these things. The distance is appreciated in this case. 

“Sometimes I notice things, that’s all.” Your reply’s a little curt. 

“Do you want to?” As tempted as you are to ask him if he’s serious, it’s clear he is. 

You change the way you’re sitting pretty dramatically until you’re backwards on the motorbike. Facing him instead of Santa Carla feels more right. Dwayne leans back a little until you take his hands. It’s less involved than a hug, better for explaining. 

“What’s the point of ghosts if you don’t remember who they are?” He considers the question for a long moment. You don’t let him find a response. “I can’t undo anything, I just want it to go away,” 

“I get it.” He says, finally. You know he does. You drop your eyes to his fingers entwined with yours. “We’ve been at this a while.” 

“Not long enough,” you force yourself to say it. The alternative is beastly. You don’t know if you’ve gone decades without feeling this way before, but what other choice do you have but to ignore it? To hope it goes away? 

You can tell by Dwayne’s expression that he wants to believe it. He searches your face for the signs of a lie. With a tug on his hands, you pull him close enough to kiss. 

It’s a good kiss, even when rushed and to hide something else. Dwayne knows when comforting pressure starts to hurt and he eases back in the figurative sense while leaning in literally.

His hand rises to your jaw, warm and calloused fingers brushing your hair away from your face. He grips the back of your head, firmly but gently. His tongue pushes at your bottom lip and you let him in. 

It’s hard to know where to grab him back, but you settle for hugging his bare chest to yours. Distance is never helpful for very long, you want to feel your ribs crack against his. 

At this proximity, all terrible things seem faded and unremarkable. You break the kiss, just for a moment and pitch yourself forward against him. Dwayne steadies himself, he holds you with all he’s got. You kiss his cheek and just below his ear. 

Something compels you to open your eyes. The shape against the dark line of the trees is a bluish, dead colour. Their expression is so sad and it’s impossible to tell whether it’s your mother or your father. But it doesn’t matter. 

Go away, you think. You should care, you know you should but how can you? How could you ever want anyone else but him? His hand at the back of your head plays with your hair, brushing it through his fingers. 

Dwayne leans in to kiss you a second time. Who knows if the ghost is still there, you do not look again.


End file.
